by Julia Quinn
Daphne thought of Simon’s scorching kiss. “Gentle” didn’t seem to apply. “But—”
Violet stood up like a shot. “Very well. Have a good night. That’s what I came here to say.”
“That’s all?”
Violet dashed for the door. “Er, yes.” Her eyes shifted guiltily. “Were you expecting something else?”
“Yes!” Daphne ran after her mother and threw herself against the door so she couldn’t escape. “You can’t leave telling me only that!”
Violet glanced longingly at the window. Daphne gave thanks that her room was on the second floor; otherwise, she wouldn’t have put it past her mother to try to make a getaway that way.
“Daphne,” Violet said, her voice sounding rather strangled.
“But what do I do?”
“Your husband will know,” Violet said primly.
“I don’t want to make a fool of myself, Mother.”
Violet groaned. “You won’t. Trust me. Men are . . .”
Daphne seized upon the half-finished thought. “Men are what? What, Mother? What were you going to say?”
By now Violet’s entire face had turned bright red, and her neck and ears had progressed well into the pinks. “Men are easily pleased,” she mumbled. “He won’t be disappointed.”
“But—”
“But enough!” Violet finally said firmly. “I have told you everything my mother told me. Don’t be a nervous ninny, and do it enough so you’ll have a baby.”
Daphne’s jaw dropped. “What?”
Violet chuckled nervously. “Did I forget to mention the bit about the baby?”
“Mother!”
“Very well. Your marital duty—the, er, consummation, that is—is how you have a baby.”
Daphne sank against the wall. “So you did this eight times?” she whispered.
“No!”
Daphne blinked in confusion. Her mother’s explanations had been impossibly vague, and she still didn’t know what marital duty was, precisely, but something wasn’t adding up. “But wouldn’t you have had to do it eight times?”
Violet began to fan herself furiously. “Yes. No! Daphne, this is very personal.”
“But how could you have had eight children if you—”
“I did it more than eight times,” Violet ground out, looking as if she wanted to melt right into the walls.
Daphne stared at her mother in disbelief. “You did?”
“Sometimes,” Violet said, barely even moving her lips, and certainly not moving her eyes off a single spot on the floor, “people just do it because they like to.”
Daphne’s eyes grew very wide. “They do?” she breathed.
“Er, yes.”
“Like when men and women kiss?”
“Yes, exactly,” Violet said, sighing with relief. “Very much like—” Her eyes narrowed. “Daphne,” she said, her voice suddenly shrill, “have you kissed the duke?”
Daphne felt her skin turning a shade that rivaled her mother’s. “I might have done,” she mumbled.
Violet shook her finger at her daughter. “Daphne Bridgerton, I cannot believe you would do such a thing. You know very well I warned you about allowing men such liberties!”
“It hardly signifies now that we’re to be married!”
“But still—” Violet gave a deflating sigh. “Never mind. You’re right. It doesn’t signify. You’re to be married, and to a duke no less, and if he kissed you, well, then, that was to be expected.”
Daphne just stared at her mother in disbelief. Violet’s nervous, halting chatter was very much out of character.
“Now then,” Violet announced, “as long as you don’t have any more questions, I’ll just leave you to your, er,”—she glanced distractedly at the mementos Daphne had been shuffling through—“whatever it is that you’re doing.”
“But I do have more questions!”
Violet, however, had already made her escape.
And Daphne, no matter how desperately she wanted to learn the secrets of the marital act, wasn’t about to chase her mother down the hall—in full view of all the family and servants—to find out.
Besides, her mother’s talk had raised a new set of worries. Violet had said that the marital act was a requirement for the creation of children. If Simon couldn’t have children, did that mean he couldn’t perform those intimacies her mother had mentioned?
And dash it all, what were those intimacies? Daphne suspected they had something to do with kissing, since society seemed so determined to make sure that young ladies keep their lips pure and chaste. And, she thought, a blush stealing over her cheeks as she remembered her time in the gardens with Simon, they might have something to do with a woman’s breasts as well.
Daphne groaned. Her mother had practically ordered her not to be nervous, but she didn’t see how she could be otherwise—not when she was expected to enter into this contract without the slightest idea of how to perform her duties.
And what of Simon? If he could not consummate the marriage, would it even be a marriage?
It was enough to make a new bride very apprehensive, indeed.
In the end, it was the little details of the wedding that Daphne remembered. There were tears in her mother’s eyes (and then eventually on her face), and Anthony’s voice had been oddly hoarse when he stepped forward to give her away. Hyacinth had strewn her rose petals too quickly, and there were none left by the time she reached the altar. Gregory sneezed three times before they even got to their vows.
And she remembered the look of concentration on Simon’s face as he repeated his vows. Each syllable was uttered slowly and carefully. His eyes burned with intent, and his voice was low but true. To Daphne, it sounded as if nothing in the world could possibly be as important as the words he spoke as they stood before the archbishop.
Her heart found comfort in this; no man who spoke his vows with such intensity could possibly view marriage as a mere convenience.
Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.
A shiver raced down Daphne’s spine, causing her to sway. In just a moment, she would belong to this man forever.
Simon’s head turned slightly, his eyes darting to her face. Are you all right? his eyes asked.
She nodded, a tiny little jog of her chin that only he could see. Something blazed in his eyes—could it be relief?
I now pronounce you—
Gregory sneezed for a fourth time, then a fifth and sixth, completely obliterating the archbishop’s “man and wife.” Daphne felt a horrifying bubble of mirth pushing up her throat. She pressed her lips together, determined to maintain an appropriately serious facade. Marriage, after all, was a solemn institution, and not one to be treating as a joke.
She shot a glance at Simon, only to find that he was looking at her with a queer expression. His pale eyes were focused on her mouth, and the corners of his lips began to twitch.
Daphne felt that bubble of mirth rising ever higher.
You may kiss the bride.
Simon grabbed her with almost desperate arms, his mouth crashing down on hers with a force that drew a collective gasp from the small assemblage of guests.
And then both sets of lips—bride and groom—burst into laughter, even as they remained entwined.
Violet Bridgerton later said it was the oddest kiss she’d ever been privileged to view.
Gregory Bridgerton—when he finished sneezing—said it was disgusting.
The archbishop, who was getting on in years, looked perplexed.
But Hyacinth Bridgerton, who at ten should have known the least about kisses of anyone, just blinked thoughtfully, and said, “I think it’s nice. If they’re laughing now, they’ll probably be laughing forever.” She turned to her mother. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
Violet took her youngest daughter’s hand and squeezed it. “Laughter is always a good thing, Hyacinth. And thank you for reminding us of that.”
And so it was that the rumor w
as started that the new Duke and Duchess of Hastings were the most blissfully happy and devoted couple to be married in decades. After all, who could remember another wedding with so much laughter?
Chapter 14
We are told that the wedding of the Duke of Hastings and the former Miss Bridgerton, while small, was most eventful. Miss Hyacinth Bridgerton (ten years of age) whispered to Miss Felicity Featherington (also aged ten) that the bride and groom actually laughed aloud during the ceremony. Miss Felicity then repeated this information to her mother, Mrs. Featherington, who then repeated it to the world.
This Author shall have to trust Miss Hyacinth’s account, since This Author was not invited to view the ceremony.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 24 May 1813
There was to be no wedding trip. There hadn’t, after all, been any time to plan one. Instead, Simon had made arrangements for them to spend several weeks at Clyvedon Castle, the Bassets’ ancestral seat. Daphne thought this a fine idea; she was eager to get away from London and the inquiring eyes and ears of the ton.
Besides, she was oddly eager to see the place where Simon had grown up.
She found herself imagining him as a young boy. Had he been as irrepressible as he now was with her? Or had he been a quiet child, with the reserved demeanor he showed to most of society?
The new couple left Bridgerton House amidst cheers and hugs, and Simon quickly bundled Daphne into his finest carriage. Although it was summer, there was a chill in the air, and he carefully tucked a blanket over her lap. Daphne laughed. “Isn’t that a bit much?” she teased. “I’m unlikely to catch a chill on the few short blocks to your home.”
He regarded her quizzically. “We travel to Clyvedon.”
“Tonight?” She could not disguise her surprise. She had assumed they would embark on their journey the following day. The village of Clyvedon was located near Hastings, all the way down on England’s southeastern coast. It was already late afternoon; by the time they reached the castle, it would be the middle of the night.
This was not the wedding night Daphne had envisioned.
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to rest here in London for one night, and then travel on to Clyvedon?” she asked.
“The arrangements have already been made,” he grunted.
“I . . . see.” Daphne made a valiant attempt to hide her disappointment. She was silent for a full minute as the carriage lurched into motion, the well-sprung wheels unable to disguise the bumps from the uneven cobbles beneath them. As they swung around the corner to Park Lane, she asked, “Will we be stopping at an inn?”
“Of course,” Simon replied. “We need to eat supper. It wouldn’t do for me to starve you on our first day of our marriage, would it?”
“Will we be spending the night at this inn?” Daphne persisted.
“No, we—” Simon’s mouth clamped shut into a firm line, then inexplicably softened. He turned to her with an expression of heart-melting tenderness. “I’ve been a bear, haven’t I?”
She blushed. She always blushed when he looked at her like that. “No, no, it’s just that I was surprised that—”
“No, you’re right. We will rest the night at an inn. I know of a good one halfway down to the coast. The Hare and Hounds. The food is hot, and the beds are clean.” He touched her on the chin. “I shan’t abuse you by forcing you to make the entire trip to Clyvedon in one day.”
“It’s not that I’m not hardy enough for the trip,” she said, her face coloring even further as she considered her next words. “It’s just that we did get married today, and if we don’t stop at an inn, we’ll be here in the carriage when night falls, and—”
“Say no more,” he said, placing a finger to her lips.
Daphne nodded gratefully. She didn’t really wish to discuss their wedding night like this. Besides, it seemed the sort of topic that the husband ought to bring up, not the wife. After all, Simon was certainly the more knowledgeable of the two on that subject.
He couldn’t possibly be any less knowledgeable, she thought with a disgruntled grimace. Her mother, despite all her hemming and hawing, had managed to tell her absolutely nothing. Well, except for the bit about the creation of children, not that Daphne understood any of the particulars. But on the other hand, maybe—
Daphne’s breath caught in her throat. What if Simon couldn’t—Or what if he didn’t want to—
No, she decided firmly, he definitely wanted to. Moreover, he definitely wanted her. She hadn’t imagined the fire in his eyes or the fierce pounding of his heart that night in the gardens.
She glanced out the window, watching as London melted into the countryside. A woman could go mad obsessing over such things. She was going to put this from her mind. She was absolutely, positively, forever going to put this from her mind.
Well, at least until that night.
Her wedding night.
The thought made her shiver.
Simon glanced over at Daphne—his wife, he reminded himself, although it was still a bit difficult to believe. He’d never planned to have a wife. In fact, he’d planned quite specifically not to have one. And yet here he was, with Daphne Bridgerton—no, Daphne Basset. Hell, she was the Duchess of Hastings, that’s what she was.
That was probably the strangest of all. His dukedom hadn’t had a duchess in his lifetime. The title sounded odd, rusty.
Simon let out a long, calming exhale, letting his eyes rest on Daphne’s profile. Then he frowned. “Are you cold?” he asked. She’d been shivering.
Her lips were slightly parted, so he saw her tongue press up against the roof of her mouth to make an N sound, then she moved ever so slightly and said, “Yes. Yes, but just a touch. You needn’t—”
Simon tucked the blanket a bit more closely around her, wondering why on earth she would lie about such an innocuous fact. “It’s been a long day,” he murmured, not because he felt it—although, when he did stop to think about it, it had been a long day—but because it seemed like the right type of soothing remark for the moment.
He’d been thinking a lot about soothing remarks and gentle consideration. He was going to try to be a good husband to her. She deserved at least that much. There were a lot of things he wasn’t going to be able to give Daphne, true and complete happiness unfortunately among them, but he could do his best to keep her safe and protected and relatively content.
She had chosen him, he reminded himself. Even knowing that she would never have children, she had chosen him. Being a good and faithful husband seemed the least he could do in return.
“I enjoyed it,” Daphne said softly.
He blinked and turned to her with a blank expression. “I beg your pardon?”
A shadow of a smile touched her lips. It was a sight to behold, something warm and teasing and just a little bit mischievous. It sent jolts of desire straight to his midsection, and it was all he could do to concentrate on her words as she said, “You said it had been a long day. I said I enjoyed it.”
He looked at her blankly.
Her face screwed up with such enchanting frustration that Simon felt a smile tugging at his lips. “You said it had been a long day,” she said yet again. “I said I enjoyed it.” When he still didn’t speak, she let out a little snort and added, “Perhaps this will all seem more clear if I point out that I implied the words ‘yes’ and ‘but’ as in ‘Yeeeessss, but I enjoyed it.”
“I see,” he murmured, with all the solemnity he could muster.
“I suspect you see a great deal,” she muttered, “and ignore at least half of it.”
He quirked a brow, which caused her to grumble to herself, which of course caused him to want to kiss her.
Everything made him want to kiss her.
It was starting to grow quite painful, that.
“We should be at the inn by nightfall,” he said crisply, as if a businesslike mien would relieve his tension.
It didn’t, of course. All it did was remind him that he’d put off hi
s wedding night by a full day. A full day of wanting, needing, of his body screaming for release. But he was damned if he was going to take her in some roadside inn, no matter how clean and tidy it might be.
Daphne deserved better. This was her one and only wedding night, and he would make it perfect for her.
She shot him a slightly startled look at the sudden change of subject. “That will be nice.”
“The roads really aren’t safe these days after dark,” he added, trying not to remind himself that he’d originally planned on pushing straight through to Clyvedon.
“No,” she agreed.
“And we’ll be hungry.”
“Yes,” she said, starting to look puzzled at his current obsession with their newly scheduled stop at the inn. Simon couldn’t blame her, but it was either discuss the travel plans to death or grab her and take her right there in the carriage.
Which was not an option.
So he said, “They have good food.”
She blinked, once, before pointing out, “You said that.”
“So I did.” He coughed. “I believe I’ll take a nap.”
Her dark eyes widened, and her entire face actually bobbed forward as she asked, “Right now?”
Simon gave a brisk nod. “I do seem to be repeating myself, but I did, as you so thoughtfully reminded me, say it had been a long day.”
“Indeed.” She watched him curiously as he shifted in his seat, looking for the most comfortable position. Finally, she asked, “Are you truly going to be able to fall asleep here in the moving carriage? Don’t you find the ride a bit bumpy?”
He shrugged. “I’m quite good at falling asleep whenever I wish to. Learned how on my travels.”
“It’s a talent,” she murmured.
“Jolly good one,” he agreed. Then he closed his eyes and faked sleep for the better part of three hours.
Daphne stared at him. Hard. He was faking it. With seven siblings, she knew every trick in the book, and Simon was definitely not asleep.
His chest was rising and falling in an admirably even manner, and his breath contained just the right amount of whoosh and wheeze to sound like he was almost but not quite snoring.